


The Wulfenbach Heir

by baroque_mongoose



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mild Language, Non-Canonical Character Death, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:06:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baroque_mongoose/pseuds/baroque_mongoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gil has tried his best to treat his son Aristide better than his own father treated him; but he has never been able to conceal his disappointment at the fact that Aristide is no more than a mediocre spark... and, eventually, this leads to tragedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wulfenbach Heir

Aristide Wulfenbach was always a generous young man, and so he gave away probably the majority of his inventions. I have already recounted the story of the typewriting machine he built for Boris before he retired; and, since he regarded me as his honorary uncle, he sometimes built things for me, too. Indeed, I am quite sure I have the best machine he ever built. It reads to me, which is immensely useful, because it means that I can do other work while listening to it going through dispatches and the like. He built in the ability to read in all the languages he knew how to pronounce, but, being aware that I speak a good many more languages than that, he also made it trainable. As he explained at the time, if I wanted it to read in, say, Hungarian, all I had to do was show it a few pages of Hungarian text and read them to it. It does not know what it is reading, so its emphasis can sometimes be a little peculiar; but it does pick up the rules of pronunciation very competently, and that is the main thing, after all.

It was only a few weeks after he gave me that machine that I received a rather startling piece of news from our Intelligence Service. I was quite certain that Gil would have the same news, so I flew up to Castle Wulfenbach to discuss it with him. Just for once, he was not in his laboratory this time; he was in his study, going through some paperwork.

“Oh, Ardsley,” he said. “I'm glad you showed up, because I've just had some rather disturbing news.”

“From Poland?” I asked.

“Ah. You've had the same news, then. Sit down.”

I sat. “Indeed. Prince Tadeusz.”

“Heh,” said Gil. “No matter how much they dye his hair, it's obvious to the whole world who his father is now.”

That point had certainly not escaped me, particularly since it was not actually Prince Tadeusz I was expecting to cause trouble just at the moment, but that very father. Tadeusz was the youngest son of the late Queen Ewa of Poland, and half-brother to King Wladyslaw and the exiled Tsarina Elisaveta of Russia, who had previously been Princess Sylwia. At the time Tadeusz was born, Queen Ewa was fighting a war against the Wulfenbach Empire in alliance with Martellus von Blitzengaard, and there had been a number of rumours circulating to the effect that this alliance was considerably more than military. I had seen Tadeusz for myself at Tsar Arkadii's wedding, when he was a babe in arms; I was forty at the time, which would make the Prince about seven years old now. They had hidden his hair under a cap, but I had seen a lock of it escape, and that had confirmed the rumours for me sufficiently to put him under a discreet watch. A Polish prince with magenta hair could have no father but von Blitzengaard.

And now Tadeusz had just broken out as a spark; that was very early, and therefore all the signs were that he would be a strong one. That, in turn, would mean that his father would be taking an interest, and that was unlikely to be good news for King Wladyslaw.

“It's a difficult matter,” I said. “It will all depend very much on what von Blitzengaard decides to do about it. As a minor son of an established royal house, Tadeusz is safe where he is, and it's not as if they're unused to sparks, after all. Queen Ewa was a strong one, and most of the family have the Spark at least to some extent. He'll get the education and the resources he needs. But von Blitzengaard is not necessarily going to be rational in this case.”

“Yes, well, that entire family is so crazy they think sanity is the practice of washing your hands before eating,” Gil grumbled. “Excepting Violetta, of course. Goodness knows how she turned out so stable. I suppose there had to be one just for the sake of the statistics.”

“Von Blitzengaard no longer has anywhere near a strong enough power base to invade Poland,” I said. “I think if he does try anything, it will be a kidnapping attempt. I've advised Whitehall accordingly. I can't officially speak for my country until I get a reply, but I should be very surprised indeed if we didn't send an extra agent or two to try to stop that from happening. Von Blitzengaard is not quite a spent force, and it's in everyone's interests at the moment to keep his son out of his hands.” I paused. “Which is a horrible thing to have to say; but I do feel somewhat better about saying it for the knowledge that von Blitzengaard has clearly not taken the slightest interest in the boy until this news broke.”

“I'm wondering about contacting King Wladyslaw and asking if he'd like the boy taken somewhere safe,” Gil mused. “I've got no bone to pick with Wladyslaw. Whatever his mother was like, he's a decent enough man.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Somewhere safe, as in, perhaps, London? With his half-sister?”

“Well, if you're offering,” replied Gil. “That would be the logical place. But I was thinking of hiding him somewhere here. I think that, with a little help from Tarvek, I could fix his hair for him permanently... and Tarvek would do it like a shot. He's got no love at all for his Cousin Martellus.”

I made a face. “Gil... I do understand what you're driving at, believe me, but we're talking here about a little boy who has unusual hair and loves it. He's too young to know anything about the whole problematic Valois clan and why it's not a good idea to be seen walking around with hair that colour. He protests bitterly every time they dye it. I know all about the political implications, but giving a small child a permanent change of hair colour against his will does not sit right with me.”

“Ardsley, you are ridiculously soft sometimes,” Gil snapped. “That hair could be the death of him if something isn't done about it.”

“Yes; so they dye it. And they make him wear those little coloured skull caps with all the jewels, which, thankfully for everyone, he does like. But he still knows that underneath all that, he's got magenta hair. Maybe one day he'll want to change that himself, when he does understand all the implications. But I think that has to be his choice, Gil.”

“Hmpf,” said Gil. “Well, never mind that for now. What about getting him to London?”

“I shall make enquiries,” I promised. “If you would be prepared to take charge of getting him out of Poland before von Blitzengaard does, and with King Wladyslaw's blessing, I can then tell our authorities that you would do that and see if they'll take him on from here. If they won't, then you can still foster him either here or somewhere else.”

Gil nodded. “Makes sense. We probably get on with Wladyslaw better than you do at the moment.”

“Well, bluntly, we don't need to get on with Wladyslaw, although I do quite like what I've seen of him personally,” I replied. “Poland's not a neighbour and not a potential threat to us. I am all for building bridges in that direction, because I always am; but it's not my job to build them.”

“Yes, I suppose if England really thought it needed a bridge building, it'd send you,” said Gil, with a wry grin. “Because you would do it.”

“It wouldn't be a difficult job,” I replied. “He's not Queen Ewa, thank heaven.”

Gil sighed. “Tadeusz, though. Seven years old and he's broken out already.” He glowered into his coffee mug. “Why the hell couldn't that have been Aristide?” he demanded, bitterly.

“Gil,” I said gently, “Aristide is a fine young man and a son of whom anyone could be proud.”

“It's all very well for you,” he said. “You'd be more than happy with him if he were your son, because he'd just have to be an earl, and that would be no problem for him. Aristide's got to run an empire, and I'm fed up with pretending to myself or anyone else that he's up to it. As a spark, he's no more than mediocre.”

“Yes, but you don't have to be a spark to be a powerful ruler,” I reminded him. “What about Tsar Arkadii?”

“Tsar Arkadii was assassinated!” Gil exploded, banging his fist on the desk. “I mean, yes, granted, he was brilliant while he was alive. But if he'd been a spark, he'd probably still be alive and we wouldn't have Russia in a state of chaos and civil war right now.”

“Yes, but being a spark doesn't necessarily... I mean, there was Saturnus Heterodyne...”

“Poisoned by his wife. Yes,” said Gil. “Which would hardly have happened to Arkadii. Elisaveta was genuinely fond of him.”

“Gil,” I said, firmly. “Your son is highly intelligent, which is no surprise given the fact that you are his father. I believe that with a little more experience of international diplomacy, he'll be able to think his way round Tarvek Sturmvoraus; he's shown some signs of that already. He has a great deal of natural courage. I, for one, am not worried about the fact that he is not a strong spark. My greatest concern about him as a future ruler is his temper, and that is something he _can_ control, unlike his Spark. Once he gets that properly reined in, I think he will be excellent.”

“I suppose that's also a hint that you think I ought to control mine,” Gil snarled.

“Yes,” I said, mildly.

“Oh, get out, Ardsley,” he snapped. “Let me have my bad mood on my own. I'll talk to you later.”

I got out without further ado. Once things reached this point, there was never any sense pushing them; we very rarely argued like this, but when we did, both of us had enough wit to separate before there were any really strong words spoken on either side. He would calm down soon enough, send down to the Embassy to invite me back for a cup of tea, tell me he had been an idiot, and that would be it as far as both of us were concerned.

But when we did argue like that, it was always about his son. And that bothered me far more than I liked to let him know, even in his better moods.

I flew back down to the Embassy with a heavy heart, and settled down to clear some paperwork out of the way while I waited for Gil's inevitable message.

It came, at last. But not at all in the fashion I was expecting.

There was a tap at my door. “Come in!” I called. One of my staff entered, looking apprehensive to the point of outright terror.

“Baron Wulfenbach,” he announced.

I leapt hastily to my feet. Gil had never once been to visit me at the Embassy in all the time I had been the Ambassador. He stormed in, wild-eyed and wild-haired, his coat billowing in his wake.

“Where is Aristide?” he demanded.

“What?!” I cried.

Gil took one look at my face, then slumped heavily and unceremoniously into the nearest chair. “I was so sure he would have come running straight to you,” he said. “He loves his uncle, even if he doesn't love his father.”

“Oh, Gil,” I said. “No. Of course he's not here. I would have brought him straight back, and he's bright enough to know that. When did he run away?”

“I don't know, but I understand he was listening at the door when we were having that little argument. That's why I thought he'd go to you. You spoke up for him, as you always do.”

“Gil,” I said, “he does love his father. I am absolutely sure of that.”

“Then why in the seven hells has he run away from me?” Gil was shaking with a mixture of rage, grief and probably a few other equally unpleasant emotions.

“Maybe because he doesn't think he's good enough?” I suggested. “I... do know what that's like.”

“Oh, and now why would that be, I wonder?” said Gil savagely.

“Gil!” I said. “Listen to me. Understand that it is not my intention to criticise you. At this moment I am trying to work out what Aristide's motivations were for leaving, and therefore, where he might have gone. I am trying to help you.”

He looked up at me tiredly. “I'm sorry, Ardsley. That wasn't an accusation against you. It was against myself. I'm the one I'm lashing out at.”

“That's not really any more helpful than lashing out at me, is it?” I asked him. “Come, now, Gil. This is not the moment for recriminations, including any you have against yourself. This is the time to use our heads and see if we can work out where he will be.”

“You say he loves me,” said Gil. “Why the hell would he do that? What reason have I given him?”

I wheeled round on him. “Don't go down that road,” I said. “You will not go that way, not if I have to knock you unconscious to stop you. I have been down it myself and it leads to madness.”

He actually gaped. “Ardsley?!”

“Look at me and see if I mean what I say,” I said.

“Sweet lightning,” he muttered. “I've never seen you like this before in all the years we've known each other.”

“That's because you haven't had to,” I replied. “Don't ever make me do that to you again.”

“Your... face... just then...”

“I know,” I said. “That's the face of a man who's stared down the barrel of a gun too many times and had the darkness stare back at him. It doesn't happen to me now. But I know where that kind of madness starts, and it starts where you were standing just now. Stand there again and you'll have me to deal with, Gil.”

“I... well. Right,” said Gil. I had clearly shaken him. I had not intended to do it to quite the extent that I had; but, if it kept his head in place, it was a reasonable price to pay.

“Now,” I said. “Let's tackle this as logically as we can. First of all, you are quite sure he's not merely hiding somewhere on Castle Wulfenbach? It's a big ship, after all.”

“Quite sure,” replied Gil. “There's a flyer missing, and some of his clothes and other possessions.”

“Obviously you have someone tracking the flyer?”

“Yes, but he'll know that,” replied Gil. “He'll abandon it as soon as he can.”

“It's still a clue,” I said. “Now, what exactly has he taken, apart from clothes and small personal effects? Do we know? Any weapons, for instance?”

“Quite a few weapons, but then I'd be surprised if he hadn't,” said Gil. “He'd need to be able to defend himself, even if only against footpads. I mean, a well-dressed young man is always going to be a target.”

“Of course,” I said, “but what weapons, specifically? Did he take a rifle?”

Gil stared at me. “How the hell did you know that? Yes, he did, as it happens.”

I frowned. “I feared so. Gil, your son is a very brave young man. Do you remember when we found him in Paris, and before he knew you were his father he was talking about how he wished he had been able to go and fight for you in the war?”

“You think he's gone to be a soldier?” asked Gil, white-faced.

“I think it's more than likely. It would be Aristide all over. If he could not impress you with his spark, he would want to do it some other way. What better way than with his courage?”

“If that's the case,” said Gil quietly, “then I know where he will go. He will go to Russia. He will go and fight for the Tsarina's forces.”

I nodded. “I thought so myself. Don't worry, Gil. I'll have our agents on the alert for him. They will be almost as keen as you that your heir should be returned to you safely; they will not want any more serious instability in an allied nation.”

Gil was silent for a long moment, thinking. Then he said, “You... really think he wants to impress me? Still?”

I nodded. “Yes. I told you he loves you. I am not normally wrong about such matters. It's true that he looks to me as an uncle, but only an honorary one, when all is said and done. I am the person he knows he can trust when he needs to let off steam; but you are his father. You are the one he really wishes to please.”

“He didn't even know I was his father until he was almost a man himself,” said Gil, wonderingly.

“Therefore, you've done far more right than wrong,” I replied, “or he would not care about you so much. Take that thought to bed with you tonight, Gil; you may need it.”

He nodded. “I should have listened to you a hell of a lot more about Aristide. Especially considering the fact that you now have four extremely happy, well-adjusted, sensible children, and I got thrown into being a parent at the deep end, as it were.”

“Well, I'm not sure Charles is old enough yet for us to be clear whether or not he is well-adjusted or sensible, but he does at any rate seem to be happy,” I replied. “But, of course, we have no sparks in the family, and I do understand that that makes things more complicated.”

“I begin to think it's a blasted curse,” said Gil dourly. “You know, I've been thinking about what you were saying earlier about poor little Prince Tadeusz and his hair. I know I was dismissive at the time, but it did stick in my head. There he'll be, playing happily with his little clanks, probably thinking everyone makes them because he's been brought up in a family that does, and he hasn't got the faintest idea that he's in the middle of a political maelstrom. Not just because of the hair, but because he's now also known to be a spark. How do you explain all that to a little boy?”

“Gradually,” I replied, sadly. “That's why I'm very much hoping London will have him; at least he's got one of his family there, even if he has to be taken away from the rest of it for his own safety. International politics is dreadful sometimes.”

“You don't have to tell me that,” Gil sighed. “Urgh. Well, I shall get my own agents out there alongside yours, obviously, and... d'you think Kuchtanin would help, too, if we asked him?”

“Given that between us we got his Tsarina to safety, I think he probably would,” I replied. “I'll go and have a word with him myself.”

“Thank you. He'll take it better from you, anyway.”

I nodded. “You talk to Poland, I talk to Russia.”

So I went to talk to Russia, and Russia – or, at least, that faction of it currently represented by Pavel Ivanovich Kuchtanin – was more than happy to assist. With the agents of three nations combing Russia and the surrounding territories for him, it was likely that Aristide would be found soon enough.

They did find him; but none of us could possibly have predicted where.

Gil got the news before I did, and, rather than sending up for me, came down to the Embassy again himself. He looked as though he had suddenly aged ten years, but he was calm.

“Bad news,” he said, simply. His face said a great deal more.

“Aristide?” I asked, dreading an affirmative answer.

He nodded and sat down. “You haven't heard?”

“No.”

“You will. Probably within the next few minutes. My son – my brave, stupid, remarkable son – managed to get into the Tsar's palace, where he successfully assassinated the pretender Andropov.”

I stared at him. “He... did... what?!”

“He did what I said. I don't know how he did it, and none of us ever will, because he was shot trying to escape. It would at least have been quick.” He buried his face in his hands. “Oh, Aristide. You wanted to impress me, did you? Well, you certainly managed that. But to get yourself killed doing it...”

“Oh, Gil.” I stood up. Gil and I do not have a very physically demonstrative friendship, but he did embrace me on the day I lost my first wife. I went to return the favour, putting my arms around his shoulders from behind.

“I'm... more all right than you think, Ardsley, but that's appreciated,” he said. “You can imagine the morale boost this has been to the Tsarina's forces. Aristide's going to be remembered as a hero in Russia for a long time, and, honestly, I think that's what he always wanted.”

“Yes... but you wanted your son back,” I said.

“I did. But I didn't think enough about what he wanted, and... well. I think he's got it now.” He gave me a twisted half-smile. “We Wulfenbachs, we're all a little insane. Sometimes I wonder why you want to be friends with one.”

“Don't go thinking of me as a model of sanity,” I warned him. “You've seen enough now to know better.” I paused. “Gil... listen. Almost the last thing Aristide built was my reading machine. It speaks with his voice. I think maybe you ought to have it.”

“Ardsley, don't,” said Gil. “God knows I appreciate the spirit behind that offer, and it's more generous than... well. I couldn't have done that in your position. But I'm not having some machine around me that talks like my son. I couldn't bear it.”

“Of course. I understand. Sorry.” I straightened up. “These things can always go two ways.”

“You needn't apologise. I know what an enormous help that machine is to you; with the amount you've got to do, you'd be up half the night working without it. That was why he built it for you in the first place. To offer it to me was an utterly selfless gesture, and absolutely not one you should be sorry for.”

“Well. I could hardly have not offered it; I mean, it was only the decent thing to do.”

“Oh, that is so typical of you. I'd love to know what you count as extraordinary heroism. You always think it's just common decency when you go above and beyond the call of duty.”

“I should say your son was extraordinarily heroic,” I replied.

Gil nodded. “Yes. I'd definitely agree on that one. Of course I'd rather have a live son than a dead hero. Who wouldn't? I'm not callous. But, if he had to get killed at this point, at least I'm glad he did it the way he did. That was very much a Wulfenbach way to go out.”

“I hope he can hear you, wherever he is,” I said.

“So do I.” Gil looked up. “Aristide? Aristide, if you're there, I want you to know, your father is damn proud of you.”

There was a tap at the door. “Shall I tell them to go away?” I asked.

“No,” Gil replied. “It'll be a message from your intelligence people to tell you that Andropov has been assassinated, vive la Tsarina.”

“Well, unless the people behind Andropov can find some other distant relative of Arkadii's to prop up the throne,” I replied, going to the door, “but I rather doubt it.” I opened it; it was indeed a message, but a verbal one, and it was exactly as Gil had just said.

“I would just love to know how he did it,” Gil sighed. “I mean, all sorts of people have been trying to do that ever since he came to the throne.”

“He's your son... he was, I mean,” I amended. “He was clever.”

“A really clever man would have told someone else how to do it,” said Gil sombrely.

“No, Gil. That's just a really clever man with nothing to prove.”

“I am an idiot,” said Gil. “And, before you give me the blazing eyes, no, I am not about to start beating myself up about it. I'm simply being honest. I am an idiot. That fact cost my son his life. The least I can do for him now is to do my best to stop being one, even if it's too late for him. It won't be for others.”

I nodded. “How will you do that?”

“Try listening a bit more to other people,” he said.

“You _were_ an idiot, Gil,” I said. “I'm not going to dispute that. But you're a good man.”

“Says one of the people I wouldn't listen to, at least regarding Aristide,” he replied wryly.

“I don't recall your father ever learning from his mistakes the way you do from yours,” I said.

“You do have an exceedingly good point there, Ardsley,” he conceded. “Well, I still have an heir, even if he doesn't know it yet. Once he finds out, I shall at least know what not to do with him.”

I nodded. I knew Gil had adopted an heir, but not even I knew who he was; all I knew was that he was a young spark hidden among the other children and young people who were routinely fostered on Castle Wulfenbach. “When will he find out?”

“Soon now, I think. He's getting to the age where I think he ought to know. Although I am not going to do what my father did and pack him off to Paris for an education; I don't want him to go wild and end up finding he's got an unexpected son several years later, the way I did. I'll have tutors for him up here, like I did with Aristide. Of course he does need to see the world a little and meet people, and I certainly don't intend to drag him around on a virtual lead the way my father did to me; but there's got to be a happy medium somewhere.”

“You'll find it,” I said.

“I'll do my best.” He paused. “Oh. And you were right. Controlling my temper... would help.”

“But, and I am sensing a certain theme here, not the way your father did?”

Gil actually laughed. “Oh, you are _so_ right. Rest assured that I am not planning to go round with my face set like plaster of Paris all the time, except for when I do lose my temper.” He paused. “That does sound terrible. I genuinely did love my father, believe me. I don't mean to be running him down like this. It's just that I could never do anything right for him...” He broke off, realising what he had said.

“I for one am glad you didn't get yourself killed trying,” I said.

“I came damn close a few times,” he admitted. “So damn close.” He looked up at me. “I suppose it was always going to happen, wasn't it? If not in one generation, then in the next. We are an accursed pack. Wulfenbach fathers, Wulfenbach sons.”

“Well, if you think you're accursed, remember that curses are made to be broken,” I said. “And you have both the will and the brains to do that.”

“I've made a pretty poor job of that so far,” he replied.

“And now you've seen what's going on. You can stop it, Gil.”

“I will. You'll help?”

“As far as I can.”

He nodded. “I may have to hold you to that. You may need to do the blazing eyes thing at me again, I'm afraid.”

“I hope not. It stresses me. But I will if I have to.”

“I'm negotiating to get Aristide's body brought back here for a proper funeral,” he said. “Given the state of affairs at the moment, I think I may stand a chance. And... I suppose I had better invite Elise Arnaud, given that she is to all intents and purposes his sister, or the nearest thing he's ever had to one. At least the poor old man is dead now and doesn't have to be told.”

“I hope Donatella is going to handle all that for you,” I said. “You shouldn't have to do it. It's bad enough for you as it is.”

“Yes, I'll get Donatella to do it. Oh, and I know you write to the Tsarina. Could you tell her what happened?”

“Certainly,” I replied. I sighed inwardly. Yes, he was grieved; yes, he was genuinely penitent, and I had no doubt that he would act on his promises to be more mindful of others in future; and yet, even at this moment, he was still being the diplomat. This was not merely a bereaved father asking his best friend to inform a mutual friend of the tragic death of his son. This was Baron Wulfenbach asking the British Ambassador to inform the exiled Tsarina of Russia that his son had been killed after assassinating, if not her most dangerous rival, then at least the acceptable public face of the faction that was opposed to her. And it wasn't as if he even really had a choice in the matter. International politics takes its own shape, often quite independently of the individual players in it.

“Thanks, Ardsley. I'm going back up to the Castle now. I think I need a bit of time alone, and this time it's not because I'm in a filthy mood.”

“Yes, I understand that. So do I, I think.” I paused. “Once you've... got your head a little straighter, let me know if I can help with anything. I want to take any stress off you that I can.”

“Thank you. I will. Though what I'm likely to do is drop everything I can on Donatella. It's her job, after all.”

When he left, the first thing I did was to put a sheet of paper into my typewriting machine (an ordinary one, I hasten to say; nothing at all like the one Boris had) and write a letter to the Tsarina. I am a great believer in getting the most difficult tasks out of the way first. That done, I crossed over to the reading machine and stood for a while, looking at it.

No. Not just now. For the moment I had nothing I needed reading, and I could not listen to that voice again either, not just yet.

Wulfenbach fathers. Wulfenbach sons. Neither would have become warped to this extent if they had not had to think about ruling half of Europa. I sighed. I'm getting too old for this game, I thought.

There was a tap on the door. It was another member of staff with a second message.

“We've got clearance to go ahead and bring Prince Tadeusz to London if the Baron can get him here with King Wladyslaw's consent, my lord,” she said. She handed me an official telegram by way of confirmation. “Are you all right? You look tired.”

“I think the word is probably jaded, not tired,” I replied. “Thank you for your concern. I'll be all right soon enough. It's been a bad day.”

“Yes... I do feel sorry for the Baron. It must have been a terrible shock for him.”

I nodded. “It was, Mrs Rutherford.” I considered adding “but I think international politics is quite happy,” and then decided against it. I do not really believe that international politics is some kind of soulless anthropomorphic monster; it is simply a figure of speech. Still, useful though it is, it is the kind of metaphor which can disconcert people.

I tore up the first letter to the Tsarina and retyped it. She would be glad to hear about Tadeusz, and I am sure I must have sounded less stilted and unhappy for having that piece of news to give her. Then I put it in an envelope, sealed it, and took it out for one of the secretaries to address. I used to do that myself, but my handwriting is not so legible these days, and I do not wish my letters to go astray.

Wulfenbach fathers. Wulfenbach sons. What of old Klaus? What had his father been, to make him the way he was? To make him treat Gil the way he did? I knew he had loved Gil, in his own dour way; but, as I recalled Agatha once putting it after Klaus was successfully extracted from Gil's head, he certainly had a strange way of showing it. At least Gil had never felt in any way inclined to do _that_ to his son.

And what had happened was by no means all Gil's fault, something I knew I should probably have to remind him later. Aristide need never have run away; it had been his choice to do so. He could simply have come to see me, the way he usually did, and let off steam in front of his Uncle Ardsley until he felt better again. What had possessed him to go off and do something stupidly heroic on this occasion was as much a mystery as how he had got into the Tsar's palace; and, of course, there was also the fact that how heroic it had been did depend very much on whose side one was on, but that made the waters even murkier. I could not help feeling a little sorry for Andropov, who had never been anything more than a puppet ruler.

“What's the time?” I asked Miss Ingram, who was on the reception desk.

“Ten to five, my lord,” she replied.

“Then I'm calling it a night,” I said. “I'm not in any state to do anything else of any importance today.”

“No, my lord, if you don't mind my saying so, you don't look it,” she said, sympathetically. “So sorry about the Baron's son.”

I nodded. “And my reading machine, if you recall, has his voice. I can't listen to it today. I shall be all right in the morning.”

“Could you... could you perhaps ask the Lady Heterodyne to do something about that?” she asked, tactfully.

I shook my head. “No. Aristide was a good young man, and I want to remember him. I should like to keep his voice. I just can't hear it today, that's all.”

“I understand. Goodnight, my lord.”

A good young man. Yes, I thought, as I trudged up the stairs; on the whole, he was. But he killed someone. Well, so have I. In some ways, Aristide was luckier than I was. He never lived to regret it.

“Darling,” said Lucilla, “you look terrible. What's happened?”

I told her.

She drew me into her arms. “You are heading into the dark place yourself, having pushed Gil away from it. Stop that. You are going to come and sit down and tell the boys one of your stories before bedtime.”

“I'll try,” I promised.

“No, you won't try. You will do it. I know you're upset about Gil and Aristide, but you have your own family to consider, and you need to do that for yourself as well as for them. Your low mood will not bring Aristide back, and it will not help Gil. Come and tell the boys a story. You know how much they enjoy them.”

“My creativity is not at its peak at the moment,” I warned her.

“You have a set of wonderful characters and an extremely vivid imagination. Really, Ardsley, I think you ought to consider typing them out and getting them published; they would make excellent books for children.” She smiled. “Why, I'd read them myself. Especially the stories about Algernon the Bright Orange Dragon.”

“H'mm,” I said. “Well... I suppose I could think of a little adventure for Algernon to have this evening, but give me ten minutes or so to rough it out in my head. I think I should like to put a train in it.”

“Very well. Would you like a cup of tea while you're thinking?”

“Yes, please,” I replied.

And so I told Gilbert and Charles all about how Algernon the Bright Orange Dragon rescued a train which had got itself stuck in a tunnel. I say Gilbert and Charles, but Agatha and Alice did listen too, although they always pretend they are far too old to listen to their Papa telling stories about dragons and they are simply in the drawing room to do their sewing. By the time the nurse came to put the boys to bed, they were happy, and I was... at least much calmer.

“Well, you look a bit better,” said Lucilla, “but still not quite right.”

“Wulfenbach fathers,” I said, sadly. “Wulfenbach sons.”

“Wooster fathers. Wooster sons,” she replied. “One of your strongest abilities is that of getting inside other people's heads and understanding them. It's a great gift to have, but don't make the mistake of staying there. Leave Gil to his own head, for now. You've just sent your two lovely little boys to bed dreaming about a friendly dragon. Think of that instead.”

“Maybe I will write down those stories, or at least the ones I can remember,” I said. “It may help. It's hard to feel totally miserable when I'm talking about Algernon.”

She smiled. “That's my love. Yes. Do that. I shall cheer you on and keep you supplied with tea and typewriting paper.”

“Have I mentioned recently that I adore you?” I asked.

“Yes; just this morning, but I never get tired of hearing it. Darling, what has happened with Gil and Aristide is a tragedy and I'm not for a moment negating that, but they both made their own choices. You can't choose for them, much as you want to go in there and make everything right. But you can choose for yourself, and you can choose to do what good you can for those around you. That is what you do, constantly. Don't carry the burden of other people's choices with you. You didn't make them, and after all, it's not as if they get rewarded for the choices you make.”

I nodded. “Very well. I'll do my best.”

“If you insist on someone carrying the burden,” she said, “at least get Algernon to do it. He's a big dragon. He can take it.”

“Yes,” I said. “I'll type out the Algernon stories, and of course the ones with the other characters too; and then I shall have the reading machine read them back to me while I'm doing other things, so I have an idea how they sound. I think Aristide would have been charmed.”

Lucilla smiled. “I didn't know him as well as you did, but from what I did know of him, I think you're right,” she said. “He always got on extremely well with the children when he saw them.”

And then, I thought, when I am gone, my children will have Algernon to read to their children, if they wish; and not just Algernon, but Juppi the Jäger, Serafina the Spark Princess, and all the others. If the stories send one generation to bed happy, perhaps they will do the same for others, too.

Perhaps, even, one day, a Wulfenbach father may read them to his children. I can only dream.


End file.
